Petyr
They came for him at dawn. Not that he could tell what hour it was from his black cell. Instead he just saw the bright lights of the burning brands they bore.
He had not slept much the previous night. Part of that was down to the thought that there was every chance that he would die that day, which was not something that he had been planning at all. "Die" had not been on his schedule at all for the year. It was all most inconvenient and he giggled to himself a little as he thought of that. The anger was the other part of why he had not slept. Those sanctimonious, hypocritical bastards. High-born scum. What did they know of the world – the real world, the world that produced their food and their clothes and their coin? Nothing, that was what.
He stood as the guards approached and then unlocked the door. "Out," the leading one grunted. "Move." So he did, passing down the dark corridor and as he went he wondered what lay ahead of him.
He had to admit that there was a tiny part of him that still had hope. He had no intention of fighting like a knight or a lord. If he had to kick his opponent in the balls or throw his knife in in their eye to win then he would do so in a heartbeat. A fair fight was for fools and he was no fool. He was Petyr fucking Baelish and if he had to he'd beat a man to death with his own severed arm if it meant that he would live to see another day.
When they came out into the sunlight it was enough to almost blind him and he paused and put his hand over his eyes before squinting horribly through almost screwed-shut eyes. After a moment a barked "Move!" got him stumbling forwards again and as he walked he looked around a little. The courtyard was empty. Arryn and Baratheon were taking no chances. Was he really that dangerous? The thought brought a mirthless smile to his face.
They passed through a doorway and then down a staircase. Down eh? Where to? After a while they reached the bottom of the stairs and as they did another door creaked open in front of them. Oh. It was an armoury. Or at least a place that contained armour. No weapons. Or at leasr that was what they thought.
"Equip yourself," the leading guard said and then strode out, leaving him alone in the room as the door slammed shut. Well now, that was a bad idea and he quickly looked about the place. No window, that was bad. There was the door he had entered by and another door opposite it. Locked, naturally. Anything else? Any crevices, old blocked-up doorways, stairs or holes? Damn it, nothing.
He looked at the armour. There was a good selection and he nodded. Right then. If he was going to do this then he needed every advantage. And so he collected the best selection he could find and then started to equip himself. Greaves for his legs. A breastplate – a good one too. The buckles were a little tricky to do on his own, but he managed it. Bracers for his forearms and then gauntlets for his hands. Oh and then there was the heavy buckler that he strapped onto his left arm. Excellent. This was a weapon. Smash someone in the face with it and then kick them while they were down. Finally he chose a helmet with a noseguard and cheekguards.
And then he waited. The room was lit by a lantern or three and he looked at them consideringly. One way to escape might be to set a fire. However, there was no guarantee that they'd rescue him and he had no intention of dying from a lungful of smoke whilst being cooked alive in his armour.
That thought made him shudder a little – and then he thought of the moment that he had read about the death of Brandon Stark and he felt a smirk creep over his face. That one had gotten what had been coming to him. It had been a shame that he had not been there, but he had gleaned every last detail about what had happened out of people. What the light had been like in the throne room. Even what the smell had been like.
The other opened suddenly and he looked up. The sellsword, Bronn, was standing there, a crossbow in his hands. "You done then?"
"The room lacks any weapons," he replied dryly. "So I am armoured but not yet armed."
"That'll be provided. Off we go." The sellsword sounded offensively bright and cheerful for someone who looked so tired and Petyr wondered what else had been happening. They passed down another corridor and then out a door and into a dark staircase lit only by the brands of the men behind him. It went down – a long way down and he felt his arm start to ache from the weight of the shield after a while. He thought about running for it a number of times, but given the darkness below that would be a bad idea. He didn't want to trip and break his neck. No, he had to bide his time.
When they got to the bottom of the staircase a door creaked open in front of him and then they were out into the bright sunlight again and once more he screwed his eyes against the light. He could feel his feet crunch against sand on flagstones and he staggered a little as he walked forwards. But then his eyes adjusted and his stance changed a little and he kept walking. He could see wooden planks ahead now and then his feet boomed as he walked over the new surface.
He could see the sea to one side now and then the group of men ahead. Ah. Arryn. And Baratheon. And a few others. Guards. No crowd. Yes, he was indeed that dangerous to them. For a moment he wanted to weep – but then he pulled himself together and thought about the letter. Yes, that should have arrived by now. He had written it weeks ago and then placed it with a man who had been paid to send it on when he had word to. Well, he had sent word just before his attempted escape.
Arryn would pay for this. The letter would see to that.
As he approached Arryn he heard the guards halt behind him and he halted himself and glared into the eyes of Arryn, who was looking at him with hooded eyes. He had one hand on his own sword – and an axe in the other.
"Well now my Lord Hand," Petyr said in poisonously sweet tones. "Here I am. Are you my opponent?"
Arryn's eyes narrowed. There was something about the man that made him uneasy for once, as if the Hand of the King had something flickering behind his eyes. Hate perhaps? "No," the old man said after a moment. "I am not your opponent. I have selected a worthy one for you though." His eyes flickered over Petyr's armour. "You seem very well equipped. Good heavy armour." There was something in his voice that Petyr couldn't put his finger on, a tone that sounded slightly gleeful, slightly guilty and slightly determined. It was an odd combination.
"I am fighting for my life Arryn," he spat. "Of course I am. Will I be allowed to choose a weapon?"
"No," said Arryn coldly and then he held the axe out, handle first. "You will use this."
He reached out and took it, feeling the weight. A good heavy axe. He placed his hand inside the leather loops that were at the end of it, wrapped them around his wrist to get a good purchase and then hefted it again. "A weapon I am unfamiliar with. Well played my Lord Hand."
Arryn stared at him for a long moment and then stepped back formally, three measured steps. "Petyr Baelish," he said in a harsh voice, "You are sentenced to trial by combat. May the Seven have mercy on your soul."
This was odd. He turned his head swiftly. Everyone was backing away from him. Where was his opponent? "Who do I fight? Who, damn you?"
"My champion," Arryn said with a savage smile. "The sea."
And with no other warning than that there was a creak and then the sound of wood moving fast and Petyr had just enough time to swear before a hatch beneath his feet opened and he plummeted down into the water below him.
The shock was horrible as he cleaved the water and he opened his mouth to scream, before closing it quickly. The water of Blackwater Bay thundered around him, filled with scraps of objects that had not been scoured out yet by the tide and down he plunged. When he hit the bottom, miraculously still upright, he could see his feet enter the sand. He flailed his hands and then tried to kick upwards – but he stayed exactly where he was.
The weight. He had to get rid of everything. He tore at his right hand and the axe eventually fell to the sand, and then after a long moment of struggle the shield joined it. His lungs were burning, but still he clawed at the armour. The helmet joined the weapons and then he kicked up again, only to sink down. The breastplate, he… needed to get… rid of… it and… his fingers spasmed and then he… pawed at the… buckles. It, it was… so dark… now and… his lungs were… fiery and…
Jon Arryn
When the last of the bubbles stopped rising to the surface of the water below him he leaned over a little. There was a dark and motionless shape in the water. After a long moment he became aware that Bronn was also peering into the water.
"You know, my Lord Hand," the sellsword said musingly after another long moment, "He could be trying to lull us into a false sense of security."
This was a good point and he nodded a little. "Very true, very true." They waited a bit longer. "Perhaps we should drop something on his head and see if he reacts?"
"Good idea my Lord," Bronn said brightly, as he removed the quarrel from the crossbow he was carrying and then gently relaxed the drawstring with a handy hook. "Give me a moment."
The sellsword vanished off to one side, leaving him alone with Stannis Baratheon, who was staring at a sheaf of notes that he had pulled out of his pocket. After a moment he caught Jon's eye. "I'm looking at replacements for the men that Baelish corrupted."
Jon nodded sombrely and then looked back at the motionless shape under the water. After a moment Bronn reappeared clutching a piece of chain that looked extremely heavy. He raised an eyebrow at Jon and then, after receiving a nod, he leant over and dropped it straight at Baelish's head. It vanished with a mighty splash and they watched it fall.
"My," said Bronn as they watched the red cloud around the head of Petyr Baelish form and then disperse. "I think that he's dead my Lord Hand." And then something seemed to leave him, a tension that Jon knew that he felt.
"You too were keen to see him dead then?"
"My Lord Hand," Bronn said seriously, "The man was a weasel, as I said. And a man who bore grudges. It was in my best interest to see him dead. If he had lived I have no doubt he'd want to see me dead, for catching him. Revenge is something he believed in a lot."
"And now he's dead." Stannis said the words with great satisfaction – by his standards anyway. He looked at Jon. "When you are done here I must talk to you." And then he walked off.
"What are your orders my Lord?" Bronn asked.
"Stay here until low tide and then retrieve the body. His head is to go on a spike over the main gate of the Red Keep. Quill will deal with that."
Bronn nodded. "And the rest of him?"
"Quill has orders to send his bones back to his keep. He was a good man once Bronn. As was his father." He looked at the sellsword. "Now, as to you – you will have your full payment for his capture and for your duties since then."
"My thanks, my Lord Hand," Bronn said, obviously highly pleased.
"And I have a proposal for you. You did not want Lord Baelish's hold. 'Tis somewhat barren, as you said. But have you heard of a place called Foxhold?"
Bronn frowned in thought for a long moment. "It's in The Vale I think my Lord Hand. Near the High Road, due North of Saltpans in the Riverlands."
"Aye. It's not a large town, but it has a castle and a great deal of potential. Sadly old Lord Cawlish, who held it was… well, a traditional man, content to do things as his forefathers did. He died six months ago with no issue and no family to inherit. I have been trying to think of a suitable and trustworthy man to be lord of it. I would grant you the title. If you want it."
Bronn had turned pale with emotion. "Why me?" he said faintly.
"You caught Baelish and you found his account books. The Realm owes you more than coin Bronn. At the very least I was going to have the King knight you."
"Ser Bronn," the sellsword said softly. "It does sound good." Then he looked at Jon. "Why me? I'm just a sellsword."
"You are more than that. You are a good fighter, you are cunning and you are intelligent. I need men like you. There are drawbacks of course. You would be a sworn bannerman to the Eyrie. If I call your swords, you must come. A sellsword no longer. You would be a lord, with land. And with land comes people and obligations to those people."
Bronn's eyes searched his face for a long moment – and then they dropped. "My Lord Hand, I am not nobly born and-"
"Piss on that." Jon said the words roughly and felt a little surprised by his vehemence. "Baelish was right about one thing. I know nothing about what the smallfolk think. That is a mistake. I would have it corrected, I would have you tell me what people are thinking in The Vale. And every noble started out as a man who killed other men to control an area. Noble born… is not something that should count when a good man deserves a prize."
"My Lord Hand," Bronn said with an odd look on his face, "Having been a sellsword has made me a killer, a cynic, a thief at times and a man with no morals."
"I know," Jon replied, taking a roll of parchment out of a pouch in his belt. "But as a Lord you will learn other attributes. You see things clearly. And you learn equally quickly. It is yours for the taking."
Bronn drew his brows down in thought for a long moment. And then he took a deep breath. "My Lord Hand," he said in a voice that started shaky but became firmer with every word. "I will take it. I do not know what good I can do, but I will take it. And if you ever call your banners again, I will come. I swear it." And then he took the parchment.